


Eleven

by cambriarose



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Gen, How Ash Got Stabbed, Losing half your stomach is no joke, Malta, Mdina - Freeform, MdinaMission, Unseen Perspectives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:42:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27183307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cambriarose/pseuds/cambriarose
Summary: Eleven people give their perspective on the Mdina mission.#1: Ash#2: John#3: Helen
Relationships: Helen Rider/John Rider
Comments: 30
Kudos: 27





	1. Ash

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warnings:  
> -Violence  
> -Stabbing  
> -Blood

**1: Ash**

**_“People who fight fire with fire usually end up with ashes.”_ **

**_-Abigail Van Buren_ **

  
  


Mdina was the first time he’s given command of an operation. 

He’s accompanied other operatives, generally younger than him, with the occasional senior who’d look at him with pitying eyes, lips twisted as if to stop themselves from saying what Ash already said to himself every damn night. “You’re too late in the game, Ash. You’ll only ever be a second, never a first. A desk job is more your cup of tea. They’re never going to think you’re as good as John.” 

But he was. He could be. He just needed a chance to prove himself, a place where he would be the one that looked like the hero. The one who did something dangerous and death-defying, to save one of his own, got a tongue lashing for it from the heads, but they all knew it wasn’t meant to be taken seriously. It would be him this time, not John. John had enough of his golden boy moments as it was. 

Eleven, eleven, eleven. Those were the numbers of the night. November 11th, at 11 PM. Caxero, a minor enough criminal that no one would start demanding serious blood for him, would be killed tonight. By either John Rider’s hands, warm and calloused but covered in blood, or by his apprentice’s. Yassen Gregorovich. 

An interesting kid (because he was a kid, ten years younger than Ash though he didn’t act like it). He’d already racked up quite an impressive kill count, and from John’s own reports of him (sounding way too much like a damn proud father for it to be any coincidence what he thought of his teenage apprentice’s disturbing skill set), a crack shot with guns. Deadly with other things too. Gun or not, Yassen was not someone to be messed with. 

There was only one good photo of Yassen, and it was from months ago, slightly blurry and taken from a security camera, so his features were pixelations rather than the real thing. Hardly ideal if they wanted to be as accurate enough as possible in their description, but it would have to do. The base features would remain almost the same anyway, and John had specifically let them know he’d be wearing something blue. A sign to tell that it was them. 

The whole thing was a setup anyway, designed by MI6 to get John out of SCORPIA. He’d be taken hostage, and Yassen would escape. Relay the information back to SCORPIA. It was the only safe way to get John out without SCORPIA getting suspicious, and while they might dismiss it as a loss, SCORPIA wasn’t in the habit of making negotiations, even for their own operatives, no matter how skilled they were. It would be a loss for them, yes, but they’d still have kept Yassen, and that was better than nothing. 

Ash rubs some of the feeling back into his fingers as the rest of the men shift.  _ His  _ men. A team of nine, with more posted from above with night vision goggles and gloves. All of them wearing body armor, concealed but restrictive and itchy. He feels the sweat pooling up underneath the material, feels the moisture collecting on his skin. They had no choice but to wear it; they were using real ammunition for this, even though it was John they were collecting. John had warned them about that too, said that Yassen would be able to tell the difference, though Ash seriously doubts that. Sometimes, John has the tendency to over-exaggerate, especially when it comes to his young protege. His opinion had been vetoed by the heads, and so they carried guns with them. 

They’d come in at 10:30 to get set-up. The night was a relatively warm one, with the moon and stars out, the square where Caxero would take his nightly coffee mostly deserted. This time of night, no tourists were outside, and for good reason, too. There was very light, save for the iron street lamps spaced at each corner. And though it felt quiet and still, living up to its name as the “Silent City”, MI6 agents were posted in the town, out of sight, but there. Watching and waiting. 

Meanwhile, Ash and his men were posted opposite St. Paul’s Cathedral. Earlier this morning, Ash had posted two of his people there, one in each of the towers. They would be watching the action, making sure that everything went to plan. It’s also a convenient way to make sure he keeps track of the time, glancing up every now and then to check the two clocks beneath the towers. One of them must have been five minutes slower or faster than the other; it’s hard to tell, and cursedly enough, he had forgotten to bring his own watch with him. 

It doesn’t matter anyway. It’s now 10:55, maybe another five minutes or so before John and Yassen would show up. He wouldn’t expect them to be anything less than on time. 

He scans the empty street again. The square is mostly deserted, but the moon casts bright light down onto the streets, reflecting them silver. He picks up the pair of binoculars, moving his gaze back towards Caxero, still sipping at his drink. Won’t be too long now…

A flash of movement catches his eyes and suddenly, like a ghost appearing out of shadows, he sees Yassen. John flanks him. Both are dressed in a dark jacket, but while John has a blue cap on the top of his head, obscuring his eyes as he keeps his head tucked low, Yassen isn’t wearing one. His fair hair shines in the moonlight, like some kind of horrible beacon of death. 

Ash freezes, resisting the urge to just  _ shoot,  _ not at John, but at Yassen. There’s something entirely off about him, the silent grace with which he moves at John’s side. Like his shadow, but with the deadly lope of a panther hunting in the night. The predator and the hunter working together, in tandem. 

It’s this deadly combination that causes Caxero to never see them coming until Yassen is standing right in front of him. And by then, it’s too late for him to do anything. Ash watches as the teen pulls something out of his jacket pocket. A gun. Silver metal catches the light once, Caxero’s eyes widen, and then a loud bang. Even with a silencer, everything is so quiet that it’s the only thing Ash can hear, ringing in his ears even after Yassen has already lowered the gun. 

Watching him, Ash resists the urge to go over all the exits in the square. The point was to let him escape, after all, but still. It’s an instinct, a gut-feeling more than anything else that makes him suddenly want as many reinforcements as he can get. The natural urge to trap a dangerous predator, even if said-predator was John’s own. 

The pair begin to walk away. The night air is still and quiet, and the square bleeds more than just silver light now. He lets himself exhale, gesturing at the men to get ready. So far so good. Now for the next part of the plan. 

Ash forces himself to move, gun already raised towards the pair, who are now vulnerable and open right in the middle of the square. He has a clear shot to hit John in the chest, but he doesn’t take it. Likely, he has body armor on underneath the jacket. Even so, Ash really only needs to fire close enough to make it seem like they’re aiming for him. 

And then as if in slow motion, Yassen’s head snaps towards him. Ash has seen his picture before, and he knows that his eyes are supposed to be blue, but right now, they look grey and dark and cold as if he’s staring down the barrel of a gun. And he is, a moment later, when he sees Yassen pull out his gun, a smooth, effortless motion. His finger inches down on the trigger. Ash is too frozen to move. 

Two shots, but nothing, until Yassen squeezes the trigger a third time, and this time something slams into him. Hard. He’s thrown off his feet, onto the pavement. A sharp pain shoots through his shoulder but a hand to his chest reveals that no, he isn’t bleeding. Possibly bruised ribs, sure, and those would hurt like a bitch the next day, but an actual bullet would have been worse. 

He lets himself lie there as the firing begins. A glance up shows John and Yassen separated as men swarm into the square from all sides. John heads towards the side, shooting at two men, but a third soon comes up behind him. A shout. John slowly raises his hands in the air. Places his weapon on the ground, steps away and then the men rush forward and he’s being thrown to the ground and handcuffed. It’s a good cover, as far as covers go. To the untrained eye, it really does look like John has surrendered. 

Yassen, meanwhile, had gotten luckier. Not luckier, no, because it was all meant for him to get away, but even Ash has to grudgingly agree that setup or not, the Russian kid was still good enough to escape on his own. Ash braces an elbow against the cobblestones, ready to push himself up and check that John was doing alright, but then...

Then everything goes wrong. 

Yassen turns around. He’s halfway out of the square. If he breaks into a dead sprint now, he’d make it, letting the darkness engulf him and making it near to impossible to find him again. But no, he’s stopped in his tracks. Ash sees his eyes narrow, and then the gun is being raised again. He fires at the three approaching men, a neat shot straight between the eyes for one, one in the side of the neck as he turns for backup, and one in the throat. 

Shit. That was three of their men, all in one go. And with Ash down, there were only three left to guard John. After the show he’s seen with Yassen using that gun like a mere extension of his hand, he’s sure that three men are nothing. 

No, that’s also not right. Maybe Ash has hit his head because his vision shifts into focus again and that’s when he remembers. Travis. Travis was left. 

At the far end of the square, one of the youngest of the men stands, barely older than Yassen himself possibly. He’s frozen like an animal in the headlights of a barrelling semi. Backed up against a wall, even if he wants to desert, there’s nowhere to go. He raises the gun, unsure about it like he’s wondering if he should take the shot. Ash wants to scream at him to just fire already, but Yassen isn’t frozen like he is, so he gets there first. 

A shot in the legs to immobilize him. Travis falls with a yell. He sees John turn towards the action, but Ash isn’t close enough to see his reaction and he doesn’t care too much about it right now either. Yassen pauses. Checks the bullets in his gun, like a cocky bastard, like he knows no one else will dare stop him now. 

And then he fires again, and Travis’s head, which he’s already struggling to lift up like a just-birthed colt, hand reaching for his fallen gun, finally flops down onto the pavement. 

Yassen doesn’t turn back as he leaves, disappearing down on the darker streets. The square is silent once again, but Ash can still hear the ringing of the gunshots, Yassen’s cold gaze, the night air, warm and heavy, forcing the stench of blood down his throat. 

He can’t stand to look at Travis. He struggles to his feet, knowing he’s fucked up this, knows that he’s failed the very first mission he’s ever been in command of. He pulls off the body armor; it would only slow him down anyway. Doesn’t glance at John once as he sets off. 

Someone calls his name as he breaks into a dead sprint; he’s sure it’s John himself, but he’s not listening. The only thing he can think of is catching up with Yassen and putting a bullet in the bastard’s head. Four men dead, and all because of one Russian street urchin. Kid wasn’t even twenty and had probably killed more people than Ash has. 

He gets to the Northern Wall. Sees the gate in front of him. Yassen must have gone towards that. Somewhere outside, SCORPIA would send for him. A car, maybe. One driver, or two people, but he’s sure he can take them out, he’s good with the gun he has...

He turns a corner, sees a flash of dusty pink and a desolate balcony out of the corners of his eyes. And then someone is stepping out in front of him. Ash nearly smashes into them, but the person side steps easily, smoothly. A blur of movement, and then pressure that makes his fingers open in shock. He lets out a yell and the gun drops. A foot kicks it away into the darkness. 

Gone and useless. Just like the rest of his men. 

Cold metal presses into his neck. Out of the corner of his eyes, blue eyes regard him as dispassionately as a piece of upholstery. 

“Who are you?” There’s barely a trace of accent to his words. John has taught him well. 

“MI6.” 

“How did you know I would be here?” 

Ash doesn’t respond. The whole point was to let Yassen getaway, but somehow, he’d failed that too. He’d only meant to shoot the kid in the head, but now the tables were turned on him. The gun jabs harder into the skin of his neck, right over his pulse, and he resists the urge to flinch. 

“You should have stayed home,” Yassen says. Ash braces himself for the shot that would come next. A shot to the throat meant a fair bit of pain, and there would be blood. A lot of it. It was still a better alternative than having just let the kid getaway. 

But then Yassen turns and runs. Ash can only stare as he disappears through another alleyway (apparently the gate was too obvious). He’s gone as silently and quietly as he’d managed to come in. 

Yassen hadn’t shot him. Why? Old sentimentality towards his mentor? Not worth the effort and bullets? Mercy? He snorts. That was laughable. Yassen Gregorovich was not a man with mercy. Ash can only go through the possibilities, each more confusing than the last. It was likely that he would never find out why he hadn’t been shot, but he supposes he should be grateful for it, nonetheless. 

Yassen is long gone by the time that Ash finally realizes there’s a knife sticking out of his stomach. 

It’s deep enough that the only visible part is the hilt. Blood spreads across the front of his white undershirt, the thin cotton fabric sticky with it even as he finds it harder to breathe. There is no pain. He must be in shock. 

That won’t last long. 

“Ash!” 

He turns or tries to. Instead, he stumbles, falling onto the pavement. The dull pain is nothing compared to the sudden stabbing waves of agony shooting up his abdomen. 

But even that is cooling quickly, replaced by a dull chill, like ice creeping up his veins. He’s never felt so cold before. The night is supposed to be warm, but he’s shivering, wishing he had something to cover against the chill. 

“Ash!” It’s John, his savior, coming to save him, putting his own life at risk for it, as he always seemed to do. If Yassen had been around, he would have realized what was going on. That it had all been a set-up. “Stay still, we need to put some pressure on it…” 

Ash tries to say something. Nothing comes out except warm liquid. His own blood. John presses a hand over the wound, putting pressure on it. His own awareness is fading alarmingly fast. He feels the world begin to slip away, getting colder and colder. As he feels himself get dragged further and further down into unconsciousness, John’s face swimming in and out of focus, his last thoughts are,  _ At least John gets to be the hero again.  _

**Written: October 23rd, 2020**

**Edited: October 24th, 2020**


	2. John/Hunter

**2: John/Hunter**

  
  


**_Fire is never a gentle master._ **

**_\- Proverb_ **

He’s forgotten how different Yassen is now. 

John’s expected it, of course. After Russia, after what he’d done to the Sharkovskys...there’s no way he could ever be the same after that but still. To think that this was the same kid who’d been hesitant to shoot an unknown target in the back of the head in a public park in New York, was...surprising. 

John knows something is different when Yassen comes from Russia, the last soft lines of his teenage years suddenly harder and sharper, eyes colder, movements languorous and lazy looking to the average civilian, though to John’s own eyes (or rather, Hunter’s), he can sense the quiet energy in the other man’s gait. The reports come in later, that the Sharkovsky's are dead, save for Maya and the Mrs., who’d managed to get out. It’s not what he expects from Yassen; loose ends like that were dangerous but he’d never asked and if Yassen gives any indication that he knows that John knows, he never says it. 

Perhaps the biggest change of all is the way in which Yassen looks at him. Gone is the adoration, the admiration, the tiny looks Yassen always gives him underneath his eyelashes when he thinks that John isn’t looking. All of those are replaced with cold, polite indifference. The same kind of polite indifference with which Hunter himself had treated his teenage apprentice with, though John had known it was wrong, that the kid leaned on him for support, and that it was fundamentally just _wrong_ for him to exploit their relationship like that. 

Hunter may not have cared much, but John senses the distance growing day by day, the way Yassen walls himself off so well that even he has a difficult time getting a reading of the rare moods he has. He senses that something is off. Wonders for a brief moment if he’s been figured out if Yassen is trying to make himself this way to cut any associations he has with John’s betrayal. SCORPIA wouldn’t take too kindly to it, and surely Yassen would get caught up in the collateral damage, at worst getting killed, and at best, being tortured for information he doesn’t have. Hunter rears his angry head at the knowledge, but John manages to placate him, reminding him that this was _Yassen_ they were talking about. Yassen would never sell him out like that. 

Though he’s armed with this knowledge, he sweats it out day by day with Yassen as his sole company, eating with him, sleeping in the same rooms as him, and going through his routine with him. Any day now, he expects to feel the cold ax of the Board’s judgment come down on his neck. 

It never happens. Yassen continues to ignore him, save for when they have to conduct business or make small-talk to maintain their cover. Soon, the bad feeling settles back into something like unease and John lets it go, slipping back into the role of Hunter, the mentor, teacher, and guide. Yassen clearly doesn’t want to talk about it, and the kid’s had a rough time as it is. It might not even have to do with him, after all. How would Yassen figure it out anyway without the Board finding out too? It’s not like he has a reason to suspect John in the first place. The story of a disgraced soldier was an all too common one in the intelligence community; one of the current Board members was in fact an ex-disgruntled agent of the CIA who’d decided to employ their talents elsewhere amidst recent budget cuts in the agency. 

And then Mdina happens. 

Not a hard mission, standard procedure, laughably easy for someone of his reputation, of Hunter’s deadly prowess. No, the mission is more for Yassen, more to test him, let Hunter see for himself if the kid’s finally got it in him. 

What SCORPIA doesn’t need to know is that it’s also the mission that would officially extract him out of his cover. A set-up, of kinds, with John getting “arrested” and Yassen getting away. There would be nothing he would be able to do except escape by himself, and if John has taught him well (which he knows he has), Yassen will cut and run as soon as he senses the first hints of danger. 

They enter Mdina around 10:45, both of them carrying guns, though Yassen should only need one shot. The streets are silent and empty, and the pace of the two is unhurried. John adjusts the cap on his head, turning it once to the side to make the blue color all the more visible. It would be the signal to let them know that it was them, and of course, that it was John that they wanted, not Yassen. Yassen would get away and not get caught up in this mess. He was a good kid, and John had come to genuinely like him, despite their shared profession. 

He can sense eyes on him, well-concealed, and easy to dismiss as paranoia if he didn’t know that there were MI6 agents in the houses, watching their approach. 

A glance at Yassen shows that he too, is cautious and alert, though it’s a quiet alertness, none of that nervous jumpiness he had when John first met him. His hair is getting longer again, barely noticeable except to those who knew how short it had been in the first place, but it suits him. Makes him look more like an adult rather than the bony, malnourished teen he once was. 

Still is, John corrects himself. It’s easy to forget how old Yassen is sometimes. Physically, he’s filled out, reaching his final adult proportions of lean muscle and delicate features, but there’s still a sort of freshness to him that makes him innocent. Not quite as innocent as he’d once been, yes, but still cleaner than SCORPIA, and certainly much cleaner than John himself. 

Yassen seems to sense his gaze and his eyes flicker over, eyebrow raising in question, but John just shakes his head and half-smiles. 

A solitary waiter is in the square when they arrive, but a quick once-over from John reveals that he’s not carrying any kind of weapon nor some kind of phone to call for backup quickly. Next to him, Yassen shifts, barely perceptible, but there’s an added tension to his walk now that hasn’t been there before. 

Caxero is seated right near the edge of the square. To his left, if John takes the time to look closely, he might see the scope of a rifle or a pair of binoculars watching their progress. He doesn’t though; his companion was perceptive and even one wrong glance could get the whole thing discovered. 

Yassen’s walk slows. He’s right in front of Caxero when he pulls out the gun, and Caxero looks up with wide watery eyes, bloodshot, and half-blind in one eye from years of drug use. A bang. A red hole right in the middle of his forehead before he slumps down, forward. They don’t even need to check for a pulse. 

They turn, no need for words, and exit the same way they came in. John braces himself for the carnage that’s to follow. 

What he _doesn’t_ expect is for Yassen to turn suddenly, for his hand to come up and fire at someone. A moment too late, he realizes that the figure looks suspiciously like Ash. The figure crumples, Yassen having missed the first two times, and then the gunshots begin. 

Instinct takes over, and John lets himself go over the motions, pretending to fire but never hitting any of the men, which are 6’s own. Ash is still lying down but he’s wearing body armor, so it’s likely just a bruised rib or two rather than a punctured lung like Yassen’s shot should have done. 

Eventually, he pretends to surrender, and someone pushes him into the ground. He feels his hands being wrenched behind him, firmly cuffed, and then they turn him around and start hoisting him up to move towards the triad of armored vehicles that will carry him away from Yassen and SCORPIA. He feels a pang of something like loss or grief (without him, Yassen has virtually no one in SCORPIA willing to look out for him), but the thoughts of Helen and his unborn child strengthens his resolve somewhat. If not now, sometime in the future, he’d have to leave Yassen anyway. It would do no good to dwell on regret. Still, he twists his head, just one more time, to look at Yassen. It might very well be his last; he has no idea where the young assassin will end up, or whether he’ll survive his first year (or even his first five) as a graduate of Malagasto. Mortality rates were high and SCORPIA specifically calculated the exact amount of investment needed in their students, how much they would need to make a profit rather than a loss off them. 

_He has promise,_ John thinks, as they start to move away. He sees Yassen turning tail (good), nearly out of the square (even better), heading towards the most direct path that would take him to one of the pre-appointed SCORPIA vehicles. He thinks his last glance of Yassen might be his back turned, running with the silent grace and speed of a wildcat, the gun in his hands glinting like a vicious claw swipe. It’s not a bad view, as far as views go. 

What John doesn’t expect is for him to _pause,_ turn around, and start firing. 

His accuracy is lethal (always has been). All of his shots are either head or throat. John squashes the approval threatening to rise in his throat. Three men go down and yet, it doesn’t look like he’s finished. His eyes flicker, briefly, very briefly, over to where John is, so sudden and short that no one would have noticed unless they’d been looking for it. John realizes what it is. Yassen is looking at _him_ the same way he does (did) after every training exercise or operation. Satisfaction, first and foremost, with approval and maybe a hint of a smile or nod. 

Right now, he isn’t looking for the first two. He’s looking for the last, blue eyes calm and steady, searching but still politely cold and distant. Nothing like the nervous, wide-eyed eighteen year old who’d have thrown his hands up as soon as the shooting had started, despite John screaming at him to run (despite it, too, the bravado and loyalty an admirable trait, but in their world, that kind of naivety and consideration was beaten out quickly). At nineteen, he knows that Yassen is more than capable of taking out the entire square if he wants to. It’s John’s word that he wants on it. 

So John gives it to him. A grim shake of his head, lips pressed in a thin line. From this distance, he can’t convey the sorry he wants to, but he tries, spreading his palms slightly, shoulders shrugging, eyes trying to convey his regret. 

He’s not sure if Yassen gets the message he wants. Or at least gets the _full_ message but a moment later, he turns his attention away, towards one of the last men left. A shot in the legs ( _unnecessary and sadistic,_ a voice whispers in John’s head, _he’s really become like you_ ) and then one more in the head to finish it off. 

There is no second-guessing this time. Yassen leaves, blending into the shadows. The square goes almost silent again. 

A moment later, a figure is stumbling up, going the same way Yassen has. There’s no one to stop him (how can there be when Yassen has shot them all dead?) John feels the dread rising, sees the shock of dark hair and beard, and knows it’s Ash. His conversation with Mrs. Jones comes flashing back to him, like badly timed deja vu. 

_“First time giving command to Anthony…” Mrs. Jones muses over the phone. John had called her from a secure line someplace outside the hotel he and Yassen were staying at. “Are we sure it’s a good idea?”_

_“Confident,” John grins the kind of smile that made it particularly difficult for people to refuse him, making sure it injects into his voice, his very breathing if it meant getting what he wanted. Helen called it a bit sleazy. He preferred to call it a regular Tuesday afternoon with Rothman. “He’s done this kind of thing before with me when we were in the Paras. Out of the entire list of men you gave me, he’ll understand the situation the best.”_

_“Anthony has proven himself to us, but John, are you sure it’s him you want for this?” Mrs. Jones pauses, like she’s hesitating, bordering on the edge of saying something. “He’s not the most...dependable of our agents.”_

_“Don’t worry, Mrs. Jones. You have my word for it,” John says. Something (he can’t remember what) catches his eye. “Listen, I have to go now. I’ll call you sometime tomorrow if I can. Otherwise, best of luck to Mdina and Ash.”_

_“Goodbye, John.”_

_“Goodbye, Mrs. Jones.”_

_He hangs up._

Emotion had clouded his judgment. There were no other explanations for how irrationally he’d acted. Emotion, of all things. He wants to laugh. He’d survived the Board’s sadistic mind-games, the grueling missions that had stripped away his humanity, little by little, the distance from Helen, and it was a rare moment of sentimentality that was going to ruin it all. 

Emotion was deadly. He couldn’t afford to have emotions, not right now when he was so close to getting out of SCORPIA. Hunter doesn’t have emotion. Hunter only has rational thought. Hunter knows that he shouldn’t go after Ash, that he should stay where he is and let MI6 deal with the rest (as they were supposed to if the whole thing hadn’t gone arse over tits, anyway). 

Hunter usually wins these arguments. Hunter is rational and ruthless and deadly. He squashes John on good days, and on bad days, beats him mercilessly to the point that it’s hard for him to even look at himself in the mirror and remember that his name was John Rider and that he was not in fact, a disgraced soldier from the Paras gone rogue, that he was not as available as he advertised, that he was not a double agent for MI6, doing the dirty work needed to bring down one of the world’s most dangerous criminal organizations. 

Not this time. 

John jerks himself free, barely giving himself time to explain what he’s trying to do. The handcuffs clatter down uselessly; he’d picked them easily while he’d been on the ground. The agents behind him shout at him, but he doesn’t stay to listen. He’s already pursuing Ash and Yassen, slipping down the same dark street that they’d gone. 

By the time he gets there, Yassen is nowhere to be found, though Ash is standing there, hand touching his chest blindly. John yells out his name, and the other man turns. Hunter comes roaring back with a fury, wondering why the hell Ash was just standing there in the open like an idiot, touching his chest-

Oh. _Oh._

Ash pulls his hand away, and it comes back bright crimson. In the moonlight, it looks uncomfortably too much like Rothman’s lipsticks for John _not_ to make an association of the woman. He turns, and there’s the hilt of a _knife,_ buried deep in his abdomen. 

Yassen. Yassen had done this. The same Yassen that couldn’t-never mind about that now. He pushes the thought out of his mind as he runs toward Ash just as the man in question collapses onto the ground. 

John lets instinct take over, putting pressure on the wound, telling Ash to stay still. Not like the man seems to be listening anyway; he’s passed out by the time the others get there, but John keeps the steady pressure anyway, his own hands soon becoming slick with blood. 

The damage is extensive. He doesn’t need Helen’s medical expertise to know that. If Ash doesn’t die from this, he was going to be in a _hell_ of a lot of pain when he did eventually recover. His field agent career was pretty much destroyed. John grimaces. Knowing Ash, his _life_ itself was pretty much destroyed. 

John watches in sadness as one of his closest and only friend is taken away on a gurney for emergency surgery in Valletta. Hunter watches with satisfaction, knowing that he’s taught his apprentice well, that this corpse will just be another insignificant bloodstain on a wall painted with them. Hunter purrs with the knowledge that his influence will stretch long after he’s gone, that Yassen Gregorovich would carry on his deadly legacy and teachings long after his death. 

**Written: October 28th, 2020**

**Edited: October 29th, 2020**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we got a bit of John/Hunter's POV on it! Doesn't really add much in terms of details, I have to say, it was more of a character development thing and seeing a contrast of the characters before and after, but when we see the other's perspectives, we'll probably see a little more of the planning that went into the Mdina Mission. 
> 
> Thank you pongnosis and Valaks for your kind reviews! You guys are like my idols 💕
> 
> Let me know what everyone thinks! :)


	3. Helen

** 3: Helen  **

_**As soon go kindle fire with snow, as seek to quench the fire of love with words.** _

_**-Shakespeare** _

Helen rubs her stomach absent-mindedly as the radio plays in the background. Piles of laundry are thrown onto the bed, the main focus of her attention as she goes to work sorting through the summer and winter clothes. It’s not hard work, but she’s far along enough in her pregnancy that even standing for extended periods of time was difficult enough to do. 

She stretches, yawning, as the radio switches over from music to an announcement, all of it in French. It was good to get some practice in before John came back and they had to leave for France, so the majority of the things coming into the house were now in French. She’d taken it in secondary school and then once again, briefly in university, but basic conversational fluency wouldn’t get her very far if they really were going to start over in France. John was fluent, of course, but he also wasn’t here right now, so she’d had to rely on whatever she could find of her old notes and audiobooks from the library.

At least it kept her company. Being pregnant was a joy, certainly, feeling their unborn child growing inside of her, but it was also terribly boring, especially now when most of her work colleagues had also turned a blind eye on her. John’s “dishonorable discharge” hadn’t been the kind of front-page news the newspapers may have wanted, but it was what they’d gotten. Helen hadn’t found out she was pregnant yet, though all the symptoms were there, so she’d taken the day off, thinking that the stress from the news (even fake, it had taken a hell of a lot of Tylenol for her headache to disappear that day) was making her feel unwell. When she’d come in the next day, no one had been able to look her in the eyes. The friends she had (not friends, really, come to think of it, they only occasionally talked at work, never outside) gave her their sympathies and from them on, the job she’d once loved started to feel like an obligation at normalcy, rather than a way for them to earn income. 

John had felt guilty about it, of course. She’d visited him a few times in prison to keep up appearances, and each time, he’d shaken his head, their signal that no, his cover hadn’t been established yet. The criminal organization known as SCORPIA had taken their time to get to him, but when they did, at least, he was paid well. He’d told her that she didn’t need to work anymore (she did, though; staying in the house all day, especially during the winter, would only drive her crazy). She’d never seen the exact amount of money deposited into his accounts, but it must have been a lot for them to move from their dingy flat in Hackney to a house in Knightsbridge. Close enough to Chelsea and Ian if there was any kind of emergency, but far enough that John’s employers wouldn’t doubt his loyalty over it. 

Ian, of course, was only if they were truly desperate. It had been a bit...disconcerting to Helen, the way the two brothers treated each other. She’d grown up an only child, in a family that was far from functional or normal, but even she can tell that there’s something not quite...right about the dispassionate way the two treat each other. Working in a private military ward meant that she was used to seeing men hardened by battle, the kind of men that didn’t express affection on much of a deeper level other than talk or charm, but to see it as close as home...for God’s sake, one of them was the father to her child and the other would be the uncle. 

The radio switches over to another song in French. She recognizes it as  _ Les rois du monde.  _

And what was John’s business with Rothman? She wasn’t a jealous woman (not underneath normal circumstances, no, but she was stressed and  _ pregnant  _ and her husband was working for a group of ruthless terrorists) but she wasn’t exactly entirely unfamiliar with the ways of men either. Her own father had cheated on her mother six times, each time with a different woman. Their marriage, yes, wasn’t the prime example of the institution of marriage, but still. What if John had to do something to gather inside intel? Would he even try to refuse or would he go along with it? 

She wants to believe that he won’t but knowing John...he was always practical in a way she’d appreciated up until then. Now, it’s just a reminder of how far in he’d gotten involved with this whole mess. 

Helen wipes away the sudden tears springing up in her eyes. Pregnancy hormones, she tries to placate herself. It was easier to have an excuse like that than face the very real and grave reality of it all-that she’d gotten into something much larger and deeper than she was comfortable with. 

The phone rings, and she sniffs, picking it up. “Hello?” 

“This is Crawley from the bank. We’ve received an overseas foreign transaction pertaining to your account. If you would please press one, this call will be sent to one of our overseas office. Thank you.” 

John. He was calling from overseas. That likely meant that the mission had gone well, then. Heart pounding, she does as instructed. There’s a brief burst of static, and then…

“Hello?” 

“John.” 

“Helen, love.” He sounds relieved to hear her, though there’s a tone of hurry there as well. In the background, she can hear something else, distorting his voice slightly. “How are you doing? I hope everything’s going well.” 

“Everything’s fine,” she responds, hoping her voice doesn’t sound like she’s been crying. She doesn’t want him to worry or get distracted, not when he was so close to coming home again. “Did it-” 

“Yes, they got me. Listen, I don’t have much time to speak right now. Ash has been hurt. I just wanted to let you know that we’re safe and that it seems like I’ll probably not be home for a little while longer.” 

“Oh. Is he-”

“He’ll be fine, Helen, I’m just telling you now because…” his voice lowers. “Truth be told, I’m not sure this went as completely successfully as it was supposed to go. And because of that…” 

He trails off as her heart sinks. Even without spelling it out explicitly, she thinks she understands the message just fine. “So you won’t be-” 

“No. I’m sorry, Helen. I don’t have much time. They’re flying him out somewhere. I’ll try to call again but if I don’t…” 

“It’s fine, John. As long as Ash is okay.” The words come out hollow even to her own ears. “I’ll talk to you later than.” 

“Thanks, Helen, you’re the best.” 

“Love you. Tell Ash I send my best.” 

“Will do. Love you.” 

The call disconnects. She sets the phone down a few moments later. At least the tears are gone. In the background, the radio continues to play but she’s long since given up trying to make meaning of the words. She supposes she should be happy that he’d even bothered to call at all. Sometimes he didn’t, and it made her grit her teeth when he’d off-handedly mention something that had occurred to him  _ weeks  _ ago and act surprised when she expressed concern over it. Reasonably, she knows that the kind of business he’s in isn’t the most forgiving and that the price of information was a high one, but still. 

Shoving her annoyance aside, she processes the rest of what he’s said. He’d be home later than expected. That likely meant that their trip to France was also pushed further back. Closer to her due date than she’d like. She was about twenty-five weeks along, so it wasn’t like she was going to go into labor any time soon, and yet, as a nurse, she understands the risks that come with pregnancy, especially one like hers. Already under a good deal of stress, working at the kind of physical job that requires a good deal of heavy lifting and focus with coworkers that hated her, wasn’t doing her any favors. The last thing she needs is for something to happen now. 

Move it after the due date, then. Maybe after the baby was born. That might work out better, and it might also give them a chance to settle a bit after John had returned. She’d take maternity leave in about another month or so anyway, and once John was home, they’d likely have to establish fake identities anyway. MI6 had hinted at a private hospital with a maternity ward, but that might change too. 

As for Ash...she winces in sympathy. John had mentioned that this was one of Ash’s only chances of taking charge of a mission. He was a nice enough man, a little awkward, and things had only become even more awkward after he’d asked her out and she’d turned him down, but she knows how close he and John are. John hadn’t been able to tell her the exact details of the mission, but it was a major one, and for Ash to have been injured like this...she hopes he’s alright. Gunshots were lethal, but with the kind of healthcare MI6 provided, she doesn’t doubt that Ash will recover and be back on his feet quickly. 

She wonders if it also has something to do with John’s student. John had mentioned something a few weeks back, some kind of worry over...what was his name? Yassen. Yes, that was right. He never brought him up, not generally, and Helen didn’t press. She had the impression that John genuinely liked the kid, though it was the kind of liking that he didn’t like to admit to. Maybe it had to do with the fact that John himself wasn’t a man of much sentimentality. Maybe it had to do with the fact that in his profession, they didn’t make such attachments. Maybe it was because he saw himself in Yassen, though Helen doubts that bit, at least. John was a rich boy who’d gone to Oxford, and then served in the army out of a sense of patriotism. From what little she’s been told, Yassen didn’t exactly do anything out of a sense of duty or moral obligation. She can respect that, even understand it to a degree. As a nurse, she did enjoy her work, did enjoy helping her patients, but it wasn’t exactly her first career choice. She’d been more inclined to work as a doctor. The pay was better, treatment, too, and it would give her a sense of financial security, but being a doctor also took the kind of time, commitment, and patience she didn’t have. The residency alone would have stretched into her early thirties, and with the kind of loans she would take out...it would put a strain on their finances even without John getting conscripted into working for a terrorist organization. Besides, it gave her a reason to leave her parent’s home and move closer to London. Her parents’ moods depended heavily on who’d had too much to drink that night, or who’d blown the most money at the casinos for weeknight poker. To say that she didn’t miss them was an understatement.

She gets a vicious satisfaction thinking about it even now. She’d managed to leave their small, dark house and it’s cold drafts and colder people behind. They, meanwhile, would stay trapped there until they died. Not once would they get to have contact with her or her family ever again. 

Of course, now there’s that niggling doubt in her mind. Had she simply traded one prison for another? But no. She pushes the thought away. John wasn’t like that. He was bright and filled with life. He was the  _ opposite  _ of her parents and the life she’d left behind. Yes, his profession might require him to deal with...death but it was out of a sense of patriotism, not because he’d gotten drunk at some bar and taken a swing at someone. Or at least, not really. That was all just a part of his cover. 

She wonders what kind of ultimatum Yassen had been given. He seemed so... _ young _ . She’d seen him once, in a picture. It was strange to see her own husband on camera, looking like such a...for lack of better words,  _ criminal,  _ but if John looked like a criminal, Yassen looked almost the opposite. He reminded her of a baby colt (she used to see those on her grandfather’s farm when she’d visit as a child, every spring) sticking close to its mother. He  _ was  _ kind of coltish. A little unsure, if she had to guess because even in that one photo, she could see him angling his body towards John, turned towards him as if to ask a question. 

It was quite possible that he saw John has a parental figure of some sort. She’s sure that no parent in their right state of mind would allow their kid to choose a career path like this so young. John’s own parents had passed away when he was in college, though from what she’d heard, they’d been supportive of their son’s military path. If they would have continued that same support for John when he’d gone undercover, she’s not sure, but she’s willing to bet a strong “no” on it. Yassen’s parents were out of the picture, at least or maybe not someone he kept in contact with, which she can sympathize with. It makes sense, then, that he’d turn to John. 

Does John know? Likely. He was an intelligent man. He’d have picked up on it. Hopefully, he’d act on it, too. Take Yassen underneath his wing. What difference was it really from the child that Helen carried right now? 

She crosses the room, switching off the radio. The silence doesn’t help matters much but she’s not in the mood to do much else tonight. Outside, the sky is already darkening, despite it only being around 4 PM. The heat was on the highest it could go, and she was dressed in a large wool sweater with socks to match, but the cold seems to seep in through the fabric anyway. The house feels so empty without anyone in it. It reminds her of home, for a moment, but she shoves the thought away. It wouldn’t be like this for much longer. 

Hopefully, John would be home soon. 

** Written:  ** November 9th, 2020 

** Edited:  ** November 9th, 2020 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Once again, we kind of get more of a character view here, but I'm actually pretty pleased with the way Helen's perspective turned out. Obviously, it wouldn't make sense for her to know all the politics and everything going on behind the scenes, but John's bound to have mentioned something or another to her. Likely, she'd worry about it, but then again, her pregnancy is also at the forefront of her mind. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who left reviews and kudos last chapter! This makes school and these dreary winter days much more exciting lol. As I've already hinted to lifeandliterature on fanfiction.net, one of the next (not immediate) perspectives is certainly going to be...one filled with jealousy.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I was just reading Snake Head and that scene where Ash was telling Alex about Yassen really struck out to me lol hence this piece of work. Brought to you by me at 1 o'clock at night when I should be studying for school. Let me know what you guys think! :)


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